Balm of Gilead
by Citiesofcolor
Summary: AU. In one of the hottest summers of 1998, a grifter walks into a church.


A product of a recent Leverage kick. Sophie and Nate kind of fascinate me. Also, it seemed to fit in with the strangely religious theme I've been throwing into my stories lately (I guess British Lit. before the 1800s is influencing my content choice. Seriously, there is nothing not influenced by Catholicism/Christianity written before the 1800s) and "The Miracle Job" did nothing to help. The church is St. Nicholas church from The Miracle Job. Thanks to fantastic beta mysticsilver86 for cleaning up my grammar. But, enough stalling. Onto the story!

* * *

><p><em>"Happy are those who mourn, since they will be comforted." - Matthew 5:4<em>

The small church was warm, the humid Los Angeles heat not completely kept at bay by the overworked air conditioner. Even the priest, who was visibly sweating as he worked his way through the Our Father, seemed to want to finish as quickly as possible. She found though that she didn't really mind. She didn't want company and only the truly pious attended Vespers on one of the hottest days of the summer in a church with faulty AC. Well, the truly pious and her, who had walked in on a whim and ended up sitting in the far end of the back row to watch, drawn in by the candlelight and an aching body. Even though sitting on the wooden pew was very uncomfortable in her state, it was a blessed reprieve from the trek to her car. She wondered if it was blasphemy to remain sitting while everyone else stood but then decided that not even the Pope himself could fault her for not standing when she had three broken ribs that _hurt_ and more bruises than she could count.

She had slunk in quietly, hoping to be as unobtrusive as possible and sit down for a bit to rest. She had been fortunate in this respect; the only other people were a frazzled mother of two who was singing along with the choir, an old man with a sloping back, and a large, blond family. She had put five dollars in the collection plate when it was passed, but had spoken in Spanish when the overzealous young boy sitting in front of her had tried to bless her, deterring any further attempts at human contact. For the most part she had simply watched, nursing her bruised back and trying not to strain her poor ribs by breathing too deeply. Honestly, she was beginning to get truly frustrated at how slowly she was healing; it was already over a week later and all she had to show for it was the cuts on her face scabbing over and the bruises turning a sickly shade of yellow. She still felt sore everywhere else and the ribs hurt as much as ever.

She was starting to get homesick too. Sometimes all she wanted was to just curl up in her little flat in Belsize Park in her own bed and sleep away the next month surrounded by the secret little things that make up her real life. She wanted to go to parties with rich people and have good sex and steal more paintings and keep making a name as the best art thief on both sides of the Atlantic. She wanted to just finish healing already. For a moment she realized the ridiculousness of her situation and almost interrupted the prayer by laughing. Here she was, Sophie Devereaux (the almost-famous grifter who had talked her way out of countless bad situations, who had enough money to buy her own private island, who was becoming known for being the grifter with the cleanest getaways), sitting in a hot little neighborhood church on a Thursday night alone, praying her own selfish little prayer that the injuries she'd received won't scar over to the one being she can't con.

But she didn't want to think about it right now. In fact, she just wished she could forget the whole terrible week. She didn't want to think about being tortured for information she'd conned people into thinking she knew while her hands were tied behind her and she believed for a certainty that she was going to die, or crawling on her hands and knees through an alley full of glass half-naked while she was terrified that every breath might have been her last, or the humiliation she felt when the ER nurse hadn't believed her when she'd said "No, I wasn't raped" until after she'd tested her.

This was the problem with her brain, she thought, it reminded her of all the things she wanted to forget (the helpless feeling when she wasn't able to protect herself while the boot came down on her stomach again and again and again) but none of the things she wanted to remember (the name of the cabbie who had stopped in the middle of a fare to take her to the nearest hospital). Of course, the doctor at the hospital had told her all this and had recommended counseling in case of PTSD, but she really couldn't stay in New York for as long as all that, not when people (dangerous, dangerous people who had almost killed her once) would be looking for her when her body wasn't found by the police.

So here she was, sitting in a church on a weeknight listening to the calm voice of a sweating priest and the death throes of the ancient air conditioner. But, at least here she was safe. London was too risky, New York was off-limits, and Ireland meant going through one of the cities with the most security cameras in the world. She might as well just lay low and try not to set off any law enforcement (or underground mob) flags. Besides, if anyone even got a whiff that her cover had been blown while on a job (even if it wasn't her fault), she'd be untouchable. Best to just stay where no one would recognize her, LEO or otherwise. Once the bruises on her face healed she could travel again and maybe find work somewhere (the bruises everywhere else could be covered up by clothing), but for now, she might as well just disappear into a big city. Los Angeles had been ideal; all the distance with no crossing borders.

A loud crunching sound from the back disturbed everyone, even the priest, who was still admirably plugging along as his dark hair slowly curled from the humidity. She heard another clank, and then the room went silent. Death throes indeed, as it seemed the poor air conditioner might have just given out. She heard the priest sigh and looked back just in time to see him shrug. Then he started the prayer over again, to the obvious frustration of the mother with the two children. Oh well, heat hadn't bothered her before, she could sit through a little more. She'd certainly lived through things much more damaging than a little heat. Last week came to mind.

Suddenly she felt very, very tired. The pain pills she'd been getting from the women's clinic near her apartment were terrible on the side effects and, while effective, they made her feel like she was slogging through quicksand. Playing Sophie was fun, but the pills made it difficult to think and she'd been compensating with hyper vigilance. And while hyper vigilance may keep her out of prison (or out of the morgue), it was murder on her fragile nerves. This was why she put up with the rapidly rising temperature of the church. Something about the smell of lemon wood polish, must, and candle smoke was comforting. It felt like cool water to just sit and be for a while, even if it meant putting up with the summer night humidity. She had been playing Sarah-Jane Baker for almost three months straight by now, so it was nice to close her eyes and just sit and relish in her own anonymity...

A hand on her shoulder shakes her awake. She must have dozed off. "Miss, are you alright?"

To her surprise, it's the priest, and she flounders around for a moment before realizing that she's the only person left sitting in her pew. She turns to try and get another look around the Church and stars explode across her line of sight as she remembers _oh God, my ribs_. Fuck, she'd forgotten about that. The pain is like fireworks, like she's being ripped apart, and she doubles over with the force of it gasping for air. The priest's blue eyes are concerned, and he moves a little closer trying to help.

"Miss, are you alright? Do you need any help?'

"Lo siento, no hablo Inglés." She gasps, putting on a Mexican accent to try and cover over the fact that she's still hurting.

"Está bien, yo hablo español también. ¿Necesita ayuda?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Of course he bloody well speaks Spanish too.

"No, yo no necesito ninguna ayuda. Gracias Señor, estoy bien."

She breathes in and out shallowly a few times, waiting for the pain to ebb.

"¿Señora, usted está seguro?" He says.

"Si Señor, estoy bien. No quiero ayuda." She bites back as she straightens up from her twisted position. She's starting to get frustrated with his persistence. Is it too much to ask to just be alone?

A smile seems to play about his eyes for a moment and he sits down next to her.

"En mi trabajo he encontrado que las personas que no quieran ayuda son las personas que más lo necesitan." He replies lightly, an ironic note in his voice. He looks at her expectantly.

She looks back at him for a moment, not sure how to continue. She could just get up, but she came in here to rest a bit and the pain from that stupid mistake still hasn't abated completely yet. This poses a problem for her though. The drugs are making thinking difficult, and she believes that the Spanish is just not possible right now. If it was French she would have no problem, but the Spanish isn't within her grasp at that moment. So she's come to a fork in the road. She can stay and blunder about a language she can't remember or get up and try and make it back to her car. She decides, rather arbitrarily, to take a third option.

"I'm fine Father. I just don't want any company." She says, falling easily into the sharp cadences of regional-neutral American English. The crisper consonants hit her tongue in that strange way they always did after speaking the smoother Spanish.

He is unfazed; smile only deepening at her transition. He lets himself savor the joke he doesn't quite understand for a moment before replying with a tranquil voice.

"You've chosen a strange place to be alone. This is the only house I know of that's always occupied even when no one else is here." He glances up and gestures around with his arms. She is confused for a beat, but then realizes what he means and almost rolls her eyes.

"I came in here to just sit Father. Is it alright if I stay for a while more while I catch my breath?" It comes out much more hostile than she'd meant it to be.

He seems a little taken aback by her tone for a moment and falls silent. She takes this opportunity to study him carefully and imagines he must be doing the same to her. He is tall, about her height in flats with unruly dark hair. His eyes are blue, a pale blue that seems world-weary. He's an old soul in a young man's body, and she feels a tiny thread of kinship wrap itself around her heart. She wants to apologize. She realizes how she must look to him at that moment; a strange woman with cuts on her face and a black eye, sitting alone, gasping for breath at the slightest movement. She imagines that if she were in his position she'd be trying to help her out too.

"I'm sorry." She says. "I've had a terrible week. I didn't mean to snap at you Father."

The smile comes back.

"Miss, as you can imagine, in my line of work I've also found that my very existence makes some people very angry. If I couldn't pull my punches I might as well not be here."

It comes out like an understatement, and she's sure that his mind is momentarily elsewhere, reliving some terrible memory. She wonders if he meant to sound as world-weary as he does, but she herself is no innocent spring-child, especially not after what she's gone through in the last week (and, if she's being honest, her line of work in general), so she imagines she has no right to tell him how fatalistic he sounds.

"What's your name Father?" She asks.

"I'm Father Nathan Ford, but most of my friends just call me Nate." He replies, making an ironic little half-bow. "And, if I may ask, what's your name?"

She hesitates for a moment, real name on her lips, but then she realizes she has no idea how to introduce herself in return and probably should have thought of this before she asked him the question. She can't use Sophie, or Annie, or Catherine. In fact, even Sarah-Jane isn't appropriate for this occasion. She again finds herself floundering in a conversation that has barely lasted five minutes, and wonders if this is all it took to make her lose her touch.

"My name is Philippa." She says, grasping about for some (really any) name and then realizes how ridiculous something so British sounds coming out of what is supposed to be an American mouth. He quirks his brow and she knows he isn't fooled and won't believe her usual "British mother, X father" she always uses. She's finding that her ability to lie is rapidly degrading the longer she talks to this man. She sighs.

"My name is Sophie. Sophie Devereaux." She says, mildly frustrated, slipping into the cultured British 'Sophie' uses. She worries that unwanted questions will follow this most recent switch, but he only nods, as if in agreement.

"I haven't seen you here before. Did you come to confess?" He says.

She means to shrug it off with a joke, but instead her lips mime a bitter smile. "I've found that people in my situation don't last very long if they make it a habit."

His face is inscrutable, not even she can decipher what's going on inside his head. He clears his throat. "I assume," he begins, pointing to the place on his forehead where she had the largest bruise, "that this… lesson has been recently… reiterated to you?"

She unconsciously mirrors his action and feels the swollen flesh beneath her fingertips. To her embarrassment, her hand shakes. He looks directly into her eyes, and she finds that she can't keep his gaze. To her further chagrin, she feels herself begin to cry.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could she be so stupid? She should know better, should be able to control herself better.

He takes the hand from her forehead and engulfs it in his slightly-sweaty hands. "What has been done to you is a crime, no matter what your real name is."

She wipes her eyes. Her makeup is probably smeared now. "I… I…" she finds she has nothing to say.

"Confession is not just for the forgiveness of sins, Miss Devereaux. It brings peace of mind before God as well."

She glances back up at him, smiles weakly at his offer. She's starting to feel reality come back and she knows that she's already said too much. "Thank you for the offer Father, but I am not baptized. I came in here simply to rest a bit."

He feels the difference too, can feel her mentally putting up her walls again. He pats her hand and nods once, a little look of mischievousness coming back in his face. "I see. And that's quite alright. This is, after all, a place of rest."

She looks at him searchingly for a moment and notices that underneath all the exhausted façade, he is probably just as young as she is. She taps his hand, just like he had done to her, and decides to thank him for the first kindness she's received in almost three months, Sophie Devereaux-style. She pulls a diamond bracelet from her purse. The facets catch the fast-fading light and toss white spangles on his black shirt as she drops it into his hand.

"Somethin' to thank you for your time, Father Nathan. Save it for when you're in a spot of bother, aye?" She says, switching into in her native North-London accent for the first time in almost a year and relishing how the familiar cadences feel in her mouth.

To her, it feels like home.

He's gotten the joke by now and understands what she's just done. It may be her imagination, but she believes that she's just made a friend. He stands and bows deeply, offering her his hand with feigned seriousness.

"A pleasure, Madame X."

She laughs. He's tried to say it deadpan, but no one can fool Sophie Devereaux. She's delighted with the reference. A happy coincidence indeed; she loves Sargent. She smiles back as she accepts the hand and pulls herself up, wincing at the pull on her ribs. He notices, a pucker of concern appearing between his eyebrows.

"Are you alright now?"

He doesn't realize how profound the question really is for her. She thinks for a moment, a faraway look in her eyes. Then she finds that a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.

"Aye, Father." She pauses, realizing that she is, in fact, alright now. "Aye Father, I think I am."

And then she smiles one last time, knowing that she will probably never meet this kind man again.

"Thank you." She whispers. And then the grifter turns and walks into the night.

* * *

><p>Translation for the spanish bits:<p>

"Lo siento, no hablo Inglés." I'm sorry, I don't speak english.

"Está bien, yo hablo español también. ¿Usted necesita ayuda?" That's fine, a I speak Spanish too. Do you need help?

"No, yo no necesito ninguna ayuda. Gracias Señor, estoy bien." No, I don't need any help. Thank you sir, I'm alright.

"¿Señora, usted está seguro?" Ma'am, are you sure?

"Si Señor, estoy bien. No quiero ayuda." Yes sire, I'm fine. I don't want help.

"En mi trabajo he encontrado que las personas que no quieran ayuda son las personas que más lo necesitan." In my line of work I have found that the people who don't want help are the people that need it the most.


End file.
